


Stay is a Charming Word

by spoowriterfic



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-27
Updated: 2018-10-27
Packaged: 2019-08-08 05:25:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16423253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spoowriterfic/pseuds/spoowriterfic
Summary: Set early-ish (around the second season) in the show, this is a short exploration of the lingering effects that her childhood and young adulthood in the Resistance had on Kira.  Originally posted on ff.net a few months ago.





	Stay is a Charming Word

**Author's Note:**

> I very, *very* rarely write in present tense, but I wanted a feeling of immediacy here and chose to write in the present to achieve that.

Kira Nerys has known suffering.

 

Sometimes it feels like five decades ago.

 

Sometimes it feels like five _seconds_ ago.

 

Sometimes it feels like it hasn’t stopped.

 

She tries not to think about it. What good could that possibly do? What Bajoran _hasn’t_ known suffering? Who _hasn’t_ lost things, places, people… _everything_? There isn’t a Bajoran in the Alpha Quadrant or beyond who hasn’t lost more than any non-Bajoran can even possibly imagine.

 

She isn’t special, that way. What right does she have to feel any more trauma than any other Bajoran – Resistance or no?

 

But it’s there.

 

It’s there is the flicker of the flames when she tries to pray.

 

It’s there when she breathes the air on…well, on what the Federation has christened _Deep Space Nine_ , as though changing _Terok Nor_ ’s name can change its history. Can erase the blood and the suffering from its floors, its walls, from the very air.

 

It’s there when the Celestial Temple – when the wormhole – flickers open and shut on the viewscreen. It’s there when she faces the inevitable thought: _why_.

 

_How_.

 

_How_ could they be right there, witness to all that suffering, and do _nothing_?

 

It’s there in the fact that she still sleeps in her clothes because part of her is still ready to jump up from sleep into a fight for her life.

 

It’s there in the scar on her hip that she won’t explain to Bashir, the one that catches on the seam of her pants, the one that _aches_ at the most inconvenient times.

 

And it’s there in this simmering, burning resentment she has towards the soft faces and open eyes of the Starfleet officers she is now nominally second-in-command to.

 

They mean well, she supposes.

 

She hopes.

 

One alien conquering empire is enough.

 

But none of them _understands_.

 

With few, rare exceptions, none of them has ever known a moment of suffering, let alone a lifetime of it. Not _real_ suffering. Not that kind that wakes you in the middle of the night, dripping with sweat and hoping against hope that you didn’t scream aloud, that you screamed only in your dreams. Not the kind that weighs you down, that follows you, that you try to ignore only to have it ambush you and swallow you whole when you see a curved door or lingering Cardassian script in a computer menu.

 

She can see it in O’Brien’s eyes, a little. And Sisko’s, once she knows to look for it – though he is very adept at hiding it.

 

And, strangely enough, she sees it in flashes in the eyes of an impossibly chipper, impossibly young, impossibly _old_ Trill named Jadzia Dax.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

She stands here often, staring out into the endless field of stars. It cools the fever in her brain in a way she can’t quite understand.

 

(Sometimes she wonders when that started. Has her brain always… _burned_ …like this? Has she just been too busy surviving to notice?)

 

She’s seen space before; hell, she’s lived – nearly starved to death – in a ramshackle cave on a moon where there wasn’t much to do _but_ stare at the stars.

 

But this is different.

 

It’s different here than even in her quarters, with the hustle and bustle of the Promenade behind her. It’s comforting, somehow. Maybe it’s the lighting – so different than drab Cardassian gray. Maybe it’s the gaggle of voices that very specifically are _not_ Cardassian.

 

Maybe it’s just that the laughter she hears is mostly Bajoran.

 

But sometimes…sometimes the hustle and bustle is…

 

Painful is the wrong word.

 

Painful is also the _right_ word.

 

It’s like pinpricks, she thinks sometimes, or knives, or the nibbles of rodents or insects when you sleep on the ground without a blanket.

 

It rubs her raw.

 

So sometimes she finds herself _here_ , up at the top of station, sitting in an unused docking bay – it’s long broken, perhaps even from her own sabotage…it’s so hard to remember. O’Brien has meant to fix it for months, but something on this ramshackle station is always breaking and he’s never gotten around to it.

 

Sometimes she thinks she should apologize to him for that. After all, Cardassians aren’t _that_ bad at construction – most of the station’s ills were most likely caused by the Resistance.

 

Sometimes she has a seev ale but most nights, she just sits here and stares at the stars as the memories jumble around in a fevered dance.

 

She’s so keyed up that the sound of footsteps nearly sends her into battle mode.

 

“Easy,” Dax says in her most quiet, serene voice, holding out flat, weaponless hands in plain view. Somehow she doesn’t think to wonder how Dax knew which instincts she’d triggered with her approach.

 

“Dax,” she breathes, simultaneously irritated and…relieved? She sits back down from her half-standing position and folds her hands to hide how badly they are shaking.

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“For what?” she demands churlishly, looking out towards the stars to hide…

 

…something.

 

Dax does something surprising then. She just sits and stares out at space too.

 

The silence should be uncomfortable.

 

It isn’t.

 

Eventually, she is drawn to Dax’s eyes. They are serene, calm and collected, and they start to cool the fire in her brain.

 

Dax senses the attention; her mouth twitches into just a tiny smile, but she continues to say nothing, granting Kira the space she needs.

 

Eventually, Kira slumps back against the curved wall – the shape causes a frisson of tension, even alone up here – and lets out a breath. “Did you need something?”

 

Dax tears her eyes away from the stars. “No. I thought maybe you did.”

 

Her nostrils flare. “Dax – ”

 

But Dax waves her off and goes back to looking at the stars.

 

Somehow, Kira knows she understands. She doesn’t know which of Dax’s lifetimes have carried the weight of trauma, but one of them must have.

 

They sit there for a long time.

 

Eventually, Dax stirs and looks questioningly at Kira.

 

“Stay,” Kira says. She intends to sound resigned. It comes out closer to grateful.

 

Dax pats her knee and settles in for the long haul with just a hint of a smile.

 

Kira feels herself smiling back – just a little.

 

She can breathe again.

 

And now she understands.

 

Dax has lived through something and has come out the other end _better_ – has come out the other end this calm, self-assured, utterly competent person.

 

It gives her…not exactly hope, really, but it does give her a chance.

 

And that’s enough for now.

**Author's Note:**

> Kira Nerys is one of my top five fictional characters ever. I was a sheltered, naive teenager when DS9 first aired, and I understood intuitively at the time that she was traumatized but I don't think I fully grasped the enormity of what she must have been through until much, much later. This is one of those stories that started as an itch to put fingers to keyboard and then emerged basically fully-formed as fast as my fingers could type.


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